I'm Telling You, It's Fu**ing Hard To

I Got Out Of The Elevator And Confronted Mr. Wexler. “killing Is Wrong.” “we Kill Chickens,” Mr. Wexler Said. “we Kill Cows. We Kill Trees. So Big Deal, We Kill Some Drug Dealers.” It Was Hard To Argue With That Kind Of Logic Because I Like Cows And Chickens And Trees Much Better Than Drug Dealers.

Opening My Door To Dillon Ruddick, My Bulding Super. I Handed Him A Cup Of Coffee. "sorry About The Blood." "what Was It This Time?" No One Reported Gunfire." "i Hit A Guy In The Face With A Hair Dryer." "whoa." Dillon Said. "it Wasn't My Fault," I Told Him. "maybe We Should Lay Down Some Linoleum Here. It Would Make Things Easier For Clean Up.

If She Wasn't Your Grandmother I'd Shoot Her." Ranger

We Were Discussing A Grisly Double Murder And Rodriguez Was Telling Us All This In The Same Sort Of Conversational Tone A Person Might Use To Pass On A Favorite Lasagna Recipe. And I Was Responding With The Same Enthusiasm A New Cook Might Show. I Was Simultaneously Horrified And Impressed With Myself.

I Took All Of My Rejection Letters - There Must Have Been Thousands Of Them In A Huge Box - And I Went Out On The Curb And Burned Them All, Crying.